


Chéri(e)

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Canon Era, Crossdressing, F/M, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Other, Trans Character, Trans!Musketeer(s), Trans!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I waited until the candle was out one night and I was curled against your body in the dark before asking the question that had been bubbling up inside me for days: “If you could give it all up – if you could wake tomorrow as a woman, would you want that?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You rolled over to face me, eyes glinting in the darkness. “No,” you replied, quiet and sure. “I’ve thought about it, but – I’ve never wanted anything as much as to be a Musketeer. Not even this.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>I understood, possibly more than you realised. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>If I could wake a Musketeer, I’d never look back.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chéri(e)

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go to [mellyflori](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori) for her crash course on contemporary clothing.

The night it all began was much like any other: our bedroom shutters closed against the outside world, candles flickering in their holders, playing golden across my décolleté as I looked down to where you unlaced my bodice with fingers that appeared to tremble in the low light, as if you still couldn’t believe your luck.

Some days I could barely believe mine.

 _This is my husband,_ I told myself, still marvelling at the new strangeness of it; watching the cautious focus of your expression as you slid the laces from their eyelets one by one, as if you were afraid of getting this wrong somehow. As if you could still, even now, be judged unworthy.

_At last._

The way you’d always undressed me was nothing short of reverent, as if we were performing some holy act; and perhaps we were, now that we finally stood before God together, knew each other with His blessing. You showed every garment of mine such care because it was mine, I’d decided, as a prelude to the way you’d touch my bare skin once you’d laid the final piece of linen carefully aside.

But that night you lingered as you turned to lay my corset on the chest against the wall, ready for the morn; and I half-reached out a hand to meet yours where you traced along the line of the embroidery with your fingertips, the delicate touch weighed with a sadness I had not seen before.

You must have seen me falter, for you turned to me, your lips parted as if caught between speech and silence – and I instinctively felt you’d shown me something I hadn’t been meant to see.

I didn’t understand, of course. I thought at first it was another woman, would you believe, that finally getting what you’d long desired had already lost its shine; but I couldn’t deny that you were as attentive as ever, your kisses just as passionate, just as heated. You came to dress me in the mornings too, with as much care as you’d always undressed me at night; and I put the moment firmly from my mind until the second time I caught you fingering the embroidery on that selfsame corset a week or so later, just as wistfully as the first.

Something about this in particular, then.

“Does it remind you of someone?” I asked carefully; and though I endeavoured to keep my voice soft and free of mistrust, I still saw the way your fingers tightened around the edge of the fabric.

“My – my sisters,” you replied; and _of course_ , I thought, was just about to suggest we take some time to visit them once the weather turned when you suddenly spoke again:

“I – was wondering how it feels.”

It took me by surprise – first that you should ask, and then following on a moment later, my realisation that I’d never consciously thought about it. I’d dressed like this almost all my life, after all; and for want of a memory I had to imagine my first corset, the close press of it, and how different it must be to wearing nothing but a chemise beneath your doublet.

“It’s… tight, I suppose,” I managed after a moment, thinking of the way you’d taken to lacing me in every morning, pulling me in tight. “But not uncomfortable. It keeps everything in place. Why do you ask?”

You smiled, though to my suspicious eyes there was something brittle about it, perhaps even dishonest. “I just want to know what it’s like, for you.”

A sudden flush of anger rose in my breast, and I had to work to push it down; you were only being kind, of course, and it was hardly your fault that no great tales would ever be told of the times you left me behind, to scrub pans and sew petticoats for rich merchants’ wives.

At least I loved you, I reminded myself; at least you weren’t _him._ At least you let me work, what I earned from dressmaking more reliable than your pay most weeks, and the satisfaction of it beyond price.

I could hope for nothing sweeter, except perhaps a child, and so I should learn to be content.

“You want to play at being a housewife? Be my guest,” I joked, my fists clenching just a little in the pockets of my skirt. “There’s always something needs doing.”

I expected you to laugh, or at least to smile sadly, if you sensed the frustration I tried to hide; but instead you stared at me in shock – and if I wasn’t mistaken, in fear.

It was only then that I realised you were holding my corset against your stomach like a shield.

“You do want to,” I heard myself say, in a small voice; though what exactly I meant, I wasn’t sure I knew.

“I… I’m sorry. I can’t explain it,” you replied, with a shaky laugh; and despite the strangeness of it all I couldn’t help but try and comfort you, stepping close to wrap my arms about your waist.

“Well, you taught me to fight,” I murmured, leaning into your chest and resting my cheek against the linen of your chemise, the corset pressed between our bodies as one of your arms came around me, holding me close in turn.

It was all I could think of to say, though it hardly seemed enough: you had taught me to wield a weapon and given me a glimpse into your world, the adventure and excitement of it, that I still found myself longing for from time to time, on the days when the house seemed even more silent than usual, and I half-feared you would never come home. 

Envy I understood all too well; and if you wanted something of my world then I would give you all that I could, even if I couldn’t understand why.

I reached back to take the corset gently from your grasp, running a thumb over your knuckles in reassurance. “You’re too broad for this – but there’s something we can try. Wait here.”

I dropped my corset carelessly on the chest before rushing from the room and near-flying down the stairs, hurrying lest I linger and the spell break around me. From my workbench I grabbed the corset I was making for Mme Delacroix, turning it quickly over in my hands to check for stray pins before taking the stairs again, two at a time until I reached the doorway of our bedroom, chest heaving.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, in chemise and braies, your head snapping up like a startled rabbit as you heard me; and I held the corset out before me, trying not to think about what this might mean. “Here,” I said needlessly; then, “Let me help you,” remembering all the times you had done the same for me.

“I’m sorry,” you said again as I approached, standing, drawing yourself up through your spine as if going into battle. “You must think it so queer.”

_Yes._

I couldn’t say it; and so I said nothing, helped you into the corset and pulled your chemise taut beneath it, then moving around behind you to lace you in. Your ribcage was still a little too wide for the edges to sit flush together, but I decided it didn’t matter, that we’d make do; and you pressed your palms flat against your stomach as I pulled the laces tight, and I couldn’t help but smile at the surprised breath that escaped you.

“I’m flattered really,” I found myself saying, trying for normality, “that you should be so interested. It’s hardly the life of a Musketeer, after all.”

I knew I didn’t sound bitter – I’d practiced enough times, during long days alone, learning not to resent you for your good fortune, the opportunity to live a life of your choosing that you had always taken for granted. But still you turned in my arms, the bow I’d made snatched from my fingers just as I’d pulled it tight, and I steeled myself for the blow of your pity, the dashing of the dreams I’d tried so hard not to nurse.

But instead you admitted, “I didn’t tell you the truth, before” – and there was something feminine in the way you hesitated, not quite looking me in the eye, so different from the headstrong, cocksure man I’d married. “When I said I wanted to know what it was like. I – already knew.”

“You already knew,” I repeated, frowning, not yet understanding.

“Yes. My sisters, I – when I said it reminded me of my sisters. It was because I used to try on their dresses sometimes, when everybody was at church. I’d feign illness so I could stay behind.” You forced a smile. “The last time was four years ago, just before Clémence married. She had a corset just like yours. I – I knew it wasn’t natural, but… I had to. Even though I didn’t understand why.”

“I don’t understand either,” I replied, knowing nothing but the honest truth was needed now. “But. If you want to…”

I stopped short of saying _it’s alright_ , because it was too new and too strange, and I didn’t know if it really would be; but instead I raised my tentative hands to rest on the boning at your waist, smoothing up over your ribs, along the stiff fabric.

As I looked up, I realised you were staring down at me, as if you couldn’t quite believe I was real – before pulling me close and kissing me as passionately as on our wedding night, until your passion burned out and you buried your face in my neck, clutching at me through my chemise, overcome.

“It just – it feels right,” you murmured against my hair, your words punctuated with kisses. “I wanted to, all this time, like an itch in my mind, but I didn’t dare… Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright,” I found myself saying, before I knew it – and it was easy suddenly, one palm smoothing over the boning as my other hand held your head against my shoulder. Your hair was growing longer, I noticed; was that part of what this was?

“If you wanted… you’re not on duty tomorrow morning, are you?” I felt you shake your head. “We could be housewives together?”

You raised your head at last, and I was taken aback to see the shine of tears in your eyes. “Please.”

When finally I unlaced the corset again your chemise had crumpled beneath, creases pressed into the linen against your waist; and I saw you look down at them, fingering one sharp fold with a wonder that made something clench in my chest.

Despite everything, I’d half-expected that whatever impulse had seized you that night would be gone by morning, but when you did not get up to dress yourself as usual but instead stayed abed, looking at me with a shy question in your eyes, I began to realise something of what this meant to you.

I dressed you myself, as you had done for me so many times, in Mme Delacroix’s corset and one of my skirts, and I tied your hair in a kerchief and watched you beam at me as if it were first summer; and you kept that smile all the while as you knelt beside me on the kitchen floor, and together we scrubbed the hearth till it shone.

Mme Delacroix never received that corset. Instead I made her another as you sat beside me, watching me work. The first time I had taken it from you with the intention of returning it to my table, your eyes followed it so wistfully that I couldn’t bring myself to part you from it, even if it meant working into the night to make up the loss.

I still didn’t understand, but I pushed all my questions aside and instead helped you sew yourself skirts that reached your ankles, praising the neatness of your stitches; and when you were home for a few hours at a time you started to dress yourself in your new woman’s garb more often than not. Sometimes we’d share the household chores, other times just dine together, before retiring to the bedroom, where we pushed up each other’s skirts and touched each other as if for the first time, learning each other anew.

I waited until the candle was out one night and I was curled against your body in the dark before asking the question that had been bubbling up inside me for days: “If you could give it all up – if you could wake tomorrow as a woman, would you want that?”

You rolled over to face me, eyes glinting in the darkness. “No,” you replied, quiet and sure. “I’ve thought about it, but – I’ve never wanted anything as much as to be a Musketeer. Not even this.”

I understood, possibly more than you realised.

If I could wake a Musketeer, I’d never look back.

“And… I’d have to give you up.”

“No, of course not, ma chérie,” I replied, deliberately using the female form, smothering my sudden guilt; and saw my instincts were right when you leaned over to press a grateful kiss to my cheek. “I’d just have to be your husband.”

I don’t know if that was the moment I first planted the seed in my mind, or if it had been laying dormant long before; but it was certainly the first time I realised your longings and mine could be mirrors of each other.

If I could offer you this, what could you offer me in return?

I determined to be masculine: to act rather than think, and not to let anything stand in the way of what I wanted. Over the days that followed, I sold the last of Bonacieux’s jewellery to pay for enough yards of freshly-tanned leather to make a simple doublet and breeches in my size, working on it slowly, between commissions. An outbreak of fever in the garrison saw you away more than usual, covering duties for the soldiers lying abed; and when you were home it was more often than not just to fall into bed, exhausted whatever time of day or night it was, and sleep until you were called away again, pressing a hasty kiss to my lips. So it was that I was able to finish my project without you knowing it; and when you were finally granted a day’s leave and had slept your fill, I bade you stay abed so I could show you your surprise.

I dressed in my workroom, in braies, binding my breasts with a strip of linen, a chemise like yours, and finally my new leathers; and strode back up the stairs as I’d been watching the men in the street do for weeks now, learning the power and economy of their movements, the particular way they filled a space.

When I stood in the doorway of our room you sat up in shock, eyes alight with a new kind of regard that made me flush all over, even though the morning was cold. “God above,” you murmured, in a voice that sounded like prayer. “How –”

“I promised you I could be your husband,” I replied, my new costume making me bold as I swaggered over to the bedside, bending down to take your mouth in a possessive kiss. “I believe you’re wearing my chemise, ma chérie.”

“Mon chéri,” you breathed as you reached up to run your palms over the leather, still at a loss for words. “Will you help me dress?”

Slowly, I came to realise that we were different as our other selves. I took new liberties, took charge, and was surprised by how gladly you welcomed it. I thought at first that we were just playing the roles we’d taken on when we swapped skirts and breeches; but it came so naturally that I was forced to conclude these tendencies had always been within us, buried deep, and we were just letting them out into the light.

I became greedy. I wanted more, new freedoms, and like a man I determined to take them. I shocked you with my daring, I knew, but I could tell you were excited by it too; and in the end it didn’t take much for you to agree to take me down to the garrison one quiet evening, both of us dressed in our leathers, our hair tied back in simple queues. You knew Tréville would be at the palace and the grounds would be near-deserted; and indeed we saw almost nobody as I took up the lightest sword from the armoury and you put me through my paces.

I remembered enough from our lessons to hold my own, and I was proud of how long I held you at bay as you pushed me steadily harder and harder, faster and more fluid, thrusting and parrying and tripping me so I landed on my back in the dirt, the breath shocked from my lungs; and I had to fight the sudden desire to pull you down on top of me and have your body cover mine as I remembered that we were two men here, and not man and wife at all.

You held out a hand and pulled me to my feet, clasping my arm and squeezing heavily, and from the look in your eyes I knew you felt the same.

I determined to use the moment as best I could.

“Tavern?”

The look you gave me said _are you serious_ for just a second before you couldn’t help breaking into a smile, as enchanted by my own daring as I was. “You’re terrible. Alright, _one_ drink. And I pick the tavern.”

The inn you led me to was light and airy, the wine decent and the prices eyebrow-raising; and I could tell that you’d picked somewhere genteel for my sake, though to my ignorant eyes the atmosphere was still excitingly rowdy, filled with bustle and male laughter. I drank in near-silence, intoxicated by possibility, my hands curled tightly round my cup to stop me reaching out for you.

It wasn’t until we were back inside the safety of our own home, lying nestled together between the blankets in each other’s chemises, your sleeves rolled up twice around my wrists, that you dared say to me, “I’m glad we could do this… but I can’t help wishing we could walk out as sisters, as well as brothers.”

You knew it was a forlorn hope, and didn’t need me to tell you: while I could pass for a boy in my leathers, and be thought only eccentric by anyone who knew me, with your height and the breadth of your chest, the shadow of the beard that stubbornly refused to grow, I could never offer you my arm and let you walk out dressed in your skirts.

Instead, I raised my hand to rest against your neck and replied gently, “And go where – to market? There’s nowhere I go that you can’t follow, even if you must be in breeches.”

You sighed. “I know. I do. It’s just –”

“I know, chérie. I know.” I resisted the temptation to sigh myself; I knew you didn’t need to hear it. “I’ll do your hair tomorrow morning, and you can help me with the mending. You’re becoming a fine seamstress.”

My fingers moved to tangle in your hair, which was down to your shoulders already in just a few months. It was thick and straight, and though I dared not curl it, I could pin it up in a knot which would be the envy of Her Majesty herself, though she would certainly never see the like.

 _This is my wife,_ I told myself that next morning, trying the thought on for size as I watched you bent over your needlework in concentration, brow furrowed, lower lip protruding a little. Your hair was pinned up as I’d promised, and you had let me put a little of the rouge on your lips that I’d used when I played at being a whore, back when we first met. It was the deep red of a juicy apple, and I found I couldn’t look away.

If you were my wife, who was I?

A knock at the door.

For a moment we just stared at each other, fear-filled; before you stood, pushing your chair back abruptly and taking to the stairs as if the hounds of Hell were at your heels, and I stooped to pick up your work where it had fallen to the floor, before taking a deep breath, smoothing my hands over my apron and walking over to unbolt the door, suddenly, desperately glad that I’d dressed in skirts as well.

“Madame.” It was Porthos, hat in hand and stooping awkwardly to address me; and I prayed to God he had not looked through the window before knocking, felt suddenly sick at the thought. “I’ve come for d’Artagnan, I’m afraid he’s needed at the garrison.”

“He was ill this morning,” I found myself saying automatically, the first thing I could think of to stall him. “Please, sit. I’ll go and see if he’s risen.”

Upstairs, I found you with your arms bent behind your back, tugging frantically at the corset’s lacing – and it occurred to me that you had never done this yourself, that you’d always had me to do it for you.

As you raised your head to look at me, I saw there were tears in your eyes.

“Let me,” I said, walking round behind you and swiftly finishing what you’d started, pulling the laces free so you could lift the corset off; but I wasn’t prepared for the way you pulled it angrily from you, throwing it down on the bed as if it was to blame for the situation we’d found ourselves in.

“It’s just Porthos,” I continued as I opened the armoire, found you a fresh, man’s chemise. “You’re needed at the garrison. Here.”

I let you dress yourself in silence, knowing there was nothing to say, that what you needed more than anything was time to let the hot flame of your anger gutter out; and only went to you once you were fastening your doublet, to pull the pins from your hair and tie it in a queue at the nape of your neck before dipping a cloth in oil, and taking your jaw in hand as I wiped the rouge carefully from your lips.

When you finally spoke your voice was low, mindful of our guest below, though I could still hear the anger in it. “We never should have done this. It’s not safe. Not even here.”

“He didn’t see you,” I pointed out, using the clean side of the cloth to dab at your wet eyes; and you let me, though I could tell from the tension you held in your neck and shoulders that you still wanted to push me away. “The door was locked.”

“I know.” Your shoulders slumped. “I just –”

This time I did sigh. “I know, ma chérie. I know,” I replied, pulling your head against my shoulder as the last of your anger drained away, leaving only sorrow.

Clinging to each other in the sanctuary of our room, delaying the moment we must descend to our real lives once more, neither of us needed to say that we could not bear to stop what we had started. That we had become something more than we used to be, and that that knowledge could not be unlearnt.

 _This is my wife, and I am her husband,_ I thought, as I listened to the front door slam shut below, leaving me alone once more. _This is my husband, and I am his wife._

Both were true; and yet neither told our whole story. What, then, of the times we sat and worked together as sisters; or walked the streets, fought together as brothers?

What of when we lay together, touching each other under cloak of darkness, neither one thing nor another?

Perhaps it did not matter, I decided, picking up your discarded skirts from the floor and folding them neatly, putting them back in the armoire, closing the door.

We could be no more or less than each other’s, and that alone would say all we needed to.


End file.
